


When They Take You In

by Kivrin



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Injury, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/pseuds/Kivrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is the place that, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.  After the Eyghon debacle, Rupert and his parents pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When They Take You In

Rupert hitched as far as Midford Hill, then walked the last three miles, dully relieved by the steady rain that soaked through the worn places in his leather jacket. Rain turned everyone inward; other pedestrians scurried with their heads down and drivers squinted at the road. Rain made him invisible.

_... masters of air, drop the veil..._

He shoved his fists deep in his pockets, as if his hands would work the spell of their own accord unless he occupied them. He'd have smoked, to busy his lips as well, but he'd gone through the pack on the train. Frowning, he scanned the pale-brown fields to either side, then checked over his shoulder, but nothing near him stirred in the wet March landscape. He let out a breath and kept walking.

When he went through a puddle water came in at the toe of his right boot and the instep of the left, where the uppers were pulling away from the soles. He could feel the burning pinch of incipient blisters on his heels and the balls of his feet. Thomas had borrowed the Docs that last morning, not really asking as he leaned over Rupert and Ethan to reach them, and Rupert had kicked him but relented, and worn the broken-down pair from the ragpicker's. Rupert carefully didn't think about where the Docs might be now.

His dirty jeans turned dark and heavy, hanging down to his heels, slowing his steps as he trudged, sticking to his legs when he paused again to glance back. The rain seemed too quiet to be so drenching. On a city street this sort of soaking would be accompanied by roaring drainpipes and the crashing surf of traffic punctuated with angry car horns, by jostling umbrellas and cursing. On the road between Midford and Limpley Stoke, the raindrops melted into the dirt. Lucky raindrops.

The steep hill up to St. Mary's made his legs ache and his breath catch in his chest. Good country air, my arse, he thought, when the hitch finally turned into a deep, hard cough. He rummaged his pockets again, as though the pack of fags might have regenerated, but he only found a lump of red beeswax, three loose matches, the wrapper off a roll of wine gums and a paper twist of some powdered herb. Rainwater slipped down the back of his neck, and he shivered. "Fuck," he mumbled aloud, leaning on the churchyard fence to fasten his jacket and try to ease his boots. He studied the church that crouched among the tombstones as if it wished it could come in out of the rain. The windows were dark, and he thought for a moment of trying the door, slipping inside to lie down under the seldom-used pews of the south aisle. He thought of grabbing a corner of the altar cloth and begging sanctuary.

"Fuck," he said again to the dripping stones.

It wasn't far now. He turned up his collar and pulled his head down. With dragging steps he followed Church Lane to the turning, then picked his way up the curve of New Track. The very familiarity of the walk gave him an insulating sense of unreality, as if he were dreaming again and would wake to a spring poking his backside and the stink of someone trying to cook with rancid oil over a faulty gas ring. Even so, when he reached the last house he loitered a long time behind the barren lilac at the head of the path, studying the rain-polished slates of the peaked roof, the veins of ivy clinging to the pale stones and massed around the door. Finally a strip of yellow lamplight appeared between the curtains at Father's study window, heightening the darkness outside. In one rush, before he could lose his nerve, Rupert squelched up to the door, lifted the wrought-iron knocker, and let it fall.

His pulse was loud in his ears. He stepped back enough to make himself visible from the windows, but he kept his head down, not looking to see if the curtains twitched or if a sash opened. At least there were no neighbors' eyes to avoid. The bend of the lane, a stand of trees, and the pitch of the hill gave the house the seclusion necessary for a family that could expect unusual visitors. For several long minutes silence held, then Rupert heard the bolt going back. He drew a breath and looked up.

Father stood just beyond the arc of the door's swing. No light showed behind him; dark as it had grown outside, in the house it was darker still. His spectacles were opaque with reflected watery light, and he held a heavy crossbow loaded in his hands.

Rupert dropped his eyes from the invisible gaze to the tip of the bolt aimed at his chest. "Father," he said, after a long half-minute. "Sir." His voice creaked with disuse. He blinked rain out of his eyes. "May I, uh, may...?"

Father didn't move. "Can you?"

That's not what you should be afraid of, Rupert thought. He had an academic sense that he should be angry, or perhaps amused, but he felt only the same grinding apprehension that had frozen his feet to the lane. He raised both hands, empty, and then stretched out his right until first his fingers, then wrist, and his arm up to the elbow, crossed the threshold.

The crossbow went down, and Father's hand closed tight around his wrist. "Rupert. Good lord."

"Hello," Rupert managed. He could see his father's eyes now. They were scarcely more revealing than the lenses had been, but the lines of his face were deeper than Rupert remembered, and with his collar undone above his dark-green jumper and his graying hair rumpled, he looked worn out beyond his years.

"Why are you here?" Father's tone made the question gentler than the words, but even so Rupert found he was not too numb to flinch.

"I… I'm in trouble."

"Police?"

Rupert shook his head. "Magic." A shudder went through him. "I've... I'm..."

"I had a call from the Council in London. They said your sword had been found."

"There was a demon." He forced his eyes up. "I... raised it." He waited for the crossbow to rise, but it stayed at Father's side. "I killed it. Killed the man it possessed." Again he shuddered, his teeth chattering briefly. "Magic," he repeated, rubbing his free hand, his sword hand, against his jeans.

"When?"

"Two days ago?" It seemed a month, or more. "I don't know."

"You must be hungry," Father said. "It's warmer in the kitchen." His stepped back, his hand still closed around Rupert's wrist, drawing him over the threshold.

***

Father called for Mum as they came through the swinging door from the passage, but she was already standing, her chin up and her head slightly tilted as though still listening for the knocker. Even so, she stared for a chilling moment before she whispered _"Rupert!"_ and stepped forward, her hands going out to him.

Rupert flinched. When his shoulder brushed the door frame he found that he was shivering. Mum stopped, turning her steady taking-in gaze from him to Father and back.

"Come stand by the stove and get warm," she said gently. "Come." She moved back, giving him room to pass, and murmured a question to Father.

The kitchen looked just as it always had, with the same primrose paint on the walls, the same solid table and chairs, the same china behind the glass doors of the corner cupboard, the same cabinet clock on its shelf, even the same ancient mackintoshes hanging on pegs by the door. Rupert dripped on the mat by the Aga while Father went for towels.

"You're drenched." Mum put a slab of cherry-almond loaf in his left hand and clicked her tongue as she filled the kettle. "You should have called from Freshford; we'd have fetched you." Her voice was light, but she didn't try to meet his eyes. She'd dyed her hair; the artificial color, darker and less shiny than her own had been around the encroaching gray, made her look pale, though she moved briskly as ever.

"I didn't come to Freshford." Rupert stared at the thick piece of cake. The sight of it, and the smell of shepherd's pie in the oven, stirred a dry-mouthed nausea. "I caught a lift most of the way from Bath."

She carefully measured tea from the caddy into the pot. "Are you staying?"

He raised his head. Father stood in the doorway, arms full of towels and the old tartan blanket they used for picnics. Watching.

"Am I…" His voice shook. He swallowed, swallowed again, but it didn't help. "Am I allowed?"

"Ru-" Mum started, soft and hurt.

He turned towards Father. "I don't know if I'm even _safe_. To have. Around." His right hand curled involuntarily over the sore place on his left arm. "I don't know if I'm..." Rupert shivered, unable to go on.

Father looked away first and laid the linens down. "Rose, the green box, do you know where it is?"

"The kit?" Still frowning, Mum dried her hands unnecessarily on her apron. "Well, if it's not in the study cabinet I haven't any..."

"Fetch it, please, dear?"

"Yes. Of course," she said after a pause. "Mind the kettle."

When the door swung shut behind her Father met Rupert's eyes again. "If you're...?"

"Dirty," he whispered.

"As you've walked three miles over country roads in the rain I should say that's beyond doubt."

For a moment he could only stare. "No. _No._ Don't... do you think I was _joking_ when I told you..."

"No. I'm sorry. You mean contaminated."

He nodded.

Father stepped forward, his stooped shoulders abruptly straightening, one hand rising as in a Roman salute. "Reclude." The bright, cheerful room went dim, and a snake's tongue of white fire flickered over his palm. Rupert shut his eyes but still saw the flash when the heel of that hand touched his forehead, and felt the power move through his body like the rumble of an earthquake and the simultaneous pricking of a hundred needles. He shuddered, eyes still closed, and waited.

"You're my son." Father's other hand cupped his cheek. "Look at me." His face was stern. "You are my son."

"I can stay?" Rupert couldn't push his voice beyond a whisper.

"Of course." Mum let the door bang behind her. "It's _you_," she glared at Father, "that I should send to sleep in the potting shed. Is it so very much to ask that you keep That Business out of the kitchen?"

"I'm sorry, dear. It seemed important to resolve the question immediately." He thumped Rupert's shoulder. "Hang up your jacket, Rupert, and take your boots off." Turning away he moved to take the bulky green box of the Council medical kit from Mum.

Rupert blinked. The light slowly returned to normal, but somehow the weight in the pit of his stomach only increased as _you're hungry… you're my son… we'd have fetched you…_ echoed in his ears. Stiffly he obeyed the instructions. His shirt was almost as wet as his coat, but he kept it on to cover his arm. When his numb fingers fumbled with his boots, Father waved him to sit and crouched to cut the sodden laces with his penknife. Rupert tried to protest but only a cough came out.

Mum clucked again. "You'll catch your _death_. Haven't you any dry things? Any things at all?"

He shook his head, then scratched behind his ear.

"But you took nearly everything from your rooms when..."

"Well, I haven't got them anymore." The words rang hoarse and loud in the kitchen. "Sold some, and the rest... I couldn't go back for it," he finished in a mumble. By the end, he'd only had the sword, and he'd left that in the call box for the wetworks team to find.

"Oh, Rupert," she said, after a long pause, in the tone that had greeted ripped trouser knees and broken windows and leaky pens and lost bus fares. It was a cue, but he couldn't remember his line. _I didn't mean to_, maybe, or _Yes, I'll be careful_. Something impossible to say.

"It's just rain," he said at last.

"We'll find you something of your father's. Dry off, now." She dropped a towel over his head.

The sudden darkness sent terror through him like an electric current. He lurched out of the chair, snatching at the terrycloth, then sat down fast, trying to breathe evenly. He could feel his parents' eyes on him. "Startled," he muttered. "Sorry." He scrubbed at his hair.

The clock ticked, and the kettle rumbled. Mum went to the stove. Father reached again for Rupert's shoes.

"Don't," Rupert said quickly. "I've got it." He stripped off his socks as well and buried his feet in another towel, hissing briefly when the cloth rubbed against burst blisters. "Thanks." He picked up the cake, but his throat tightened and he put it down again.

"There's a Sally Lunn if you'd rather that," Mum said. Her bright brown eyes flicked over him and came up brighter still. "Or bread?"

Rupert nodded.

She brought him two slices off a cottage loaf and a china teacup on a saucer. "You can have a bath while I'm getting the supper," she said as she poured. "Then I'll cut your hair."

"Rose," Father said quietly. "Let the boy drink his tea."

"Yes. Yes, thanks, Mum, that...that's a good idea." Rupert kept his eyes down. "I, um, yeah." He lowered his face to the cup's rim and blew on the glassy surface of his tea. He waited, but Father said nothing more. Well, what could Father say, with every one of the old arguments rendered obsolete? After all, it wasn't as if Rupert could be a Watcher now. Not after what he'd done.

***

When Mum wrapped the haircutting sheet around his shoulders, he might have been fourteen again, home for half-term, or six and worn out from playing pirates on the hillside with Matthew and Celia Bolton. He might have, except for the ghastly tattoo on his arm, not at all obscured by the day-old welts he'd raised with his nails and the new rawness left by pumice and loofah in the bath, and the intractable, inchoate ache that made words heavy in his mouth.

His mother had asked no more questions beyond gentle ones about milk and sugar, more vegetables, and was he quite warm now. She'd made no condemnation except to give him a bottle of delousing shampoo along with yet another towel when he went to wash up. Yet when she drew the comb through his hair, he could only think of how French aristocrats were shorn before facing the guillotine. He pulled Father's old dressing gown tighter around his waist as the scissors closed with a threatening _snick_.

***

The air was stagnant in his old room, the Spitfire and Sopwith models becalmed above the bed. Rupert couldn't sleep or even keep still. Stripping off the shirt of his borrowed pajama suit helped a little, but the ill-fitting flannelette trousers still pulled every time he moved.

He turned onto his stomach, crooking his right arm beneath the pillow and bunching up the bedclothes against his chest with the other. The bed felt at once narrow and empty, giving him no room to move and nothing solid to touch, nothing but smooth linen stinking faintly with a nauseous mixture of chemical soap, Mum's violet sachets, and his own smoky perspiration.

The last squat had smelled of mildew. The gas meter only worked half the time that they bothered to put coins in it, and the plumbing had been nearly as unreliable as the electricity. Only one of the mattresses was decent, and after the weather turned in December there'd never been enough blankets. And what came to mind now, here, in the room he'd built bookshelf by bookshelf in his mind when he'd been too hung over to move or shaking and sweating with flu, was the sweetness of it. He still remembered waking there languid and hungry to a distant rumble of traffic and warm skin against his own. He remembered lightning in his fingertips, kisses like thunderbolts, and laughter.

And blood, Randall's blood, on a blade in his hand.

He flopped onto his back with a creak of springs. The silence of the house pressed heavily on his ears and eyelids. Time to go to sleep. He coughed out a bitter laugh. Oh, this Macbeth had bloody well murdered sleep, all right. Before his mind's eye Randall's pale face wavered like something projected on a rippling curtain and Eyghon's horned visage pressed through. Rupert's left hand tightened around the edge of the mattress. He forced it to relax, but he still seemed to feel the weight of the sword as he'd swung that last time, and the sudden ghastly resistance of blade meeting flesh.

He'd almost left the sword behind in Oxford, left it with the lecture notes and hoary volumes of history and the unopened letters from home. At the last moment, however, he'd wrapped it in a jumper and laid it underneath his guitar. Had it been straight from the Council armory he'd never have hesitated, but it was Grandmother's sword and even angry as he'd been, he'd not quite had the boldness to abandon it. Rupert might have known from that fact alone that Father was right, had always been right. He was of Watcher blood, and run as he might, his blood would tell.

Lying flat made his chest feel tight. He sat up, but found that without the covers he was cold except at the crook of his elbow where the mark was burning. Bloody hell, the mark. In the dark he couldn't see it, but Eyghon would have no trouble. Rupert groped unsuccessfully for his discarded shirt, then wound a corner of the sheet around his arm. Better. He scratched through the cloth, hissing at the pain, and pulled his arm in close to his chest. The surface irritation reassured him. Maybe he'd distorted the rune enough to confuse Eyghon. Maybe it wouldn't recognize its own symbol any more than Rupert recognized the quiet of the countryside. Maybe it would be lost as Rupert was lost, unable to fulfill its destined function and unable to do anything else.

Rupert lay down, on his side this time, tugging the sheet free from the foot of the bed and hitching a blanket over his shoulder. The wool scratched and made him instantly hot again, but he felt safer under cover. His hand clenched again, and again he consciously stretched each finger. He'd fumbled finding the sword, his fingers numb and distant after the long stillness during the chant, his eyes confused by the shifting light as one candle after another fell and guttered on the floor in the midst of the struggle. It had seemed a long time that he pawed through dirty clothes by the mattress while the noise behind him turned from _stop it, Ran_ and _what's wrong with his face_ to breathless swearing and deep inhuman laughter.

He'd been stupid with magic and weed, clumsy with the blade, clumsy on his feet as they raced through the dark, wet streets. By the time they'd caught up to Randall, he'd barely been able to keep his grip on the hilt. Yet at the last moment his training had held. He'd seen his opening, he'd raised his shaking arm and swept it across and down. The awful face, still partly human, had slackened as the great vessels of the throat split open, and the head had fallen with a heavy, hollow sound.

Rupert shuddered, curling more tightly around his arm and the ache in his chest, trying not to hear the thud and the terrible silence afterwards.

***

_"Jesus Christ." Tom giggled nervously. "Oh, Christ."_

_"Don't think he's got much to do with it, do you? **Stop** it," Ethan added, when Tom kept laughing._

_The blade in Rupert's hand shimmered, catching the light as he trembled. "Shut up," he hissed. "Shut up, shut up, all of you! We have to think."_

_Wind stirred the leaves around their feet, sending a few floating down the slope to the footpath, where the touch of the streetlamp turned their black stains crimson._

_"Ambulance," Deidre said. "We should..."_

_"Medical science hasn't quite advanced to the point of reattaching heads, lovie," Ethan said. "Now, magical science..." He bent down. "Where **is** his head?"_

_Philip dropped the urn he'd been holding and turned away._

_"Wait!" Rupert barked._

_Philip retched horribly, gasped, then doubled over to heave again, and again. The wind turned back on them, mingling the stench of vomit with the hot smell of blood._

_"Better out than in." Tom started laughing again. "Better off than on. Better dead than red. Better... better..."_

_Rupert leaned over the body to slap him, ending the laugh in a startled hiccup. "Shut. Up," he said. "Listen. We'll separate. Every man take a different way home. Wash up, get your stuff from the squat, but don't stay. No one can be there after sunrise. Do you understand? Tom? Philip? Dee? Ethan?"_

_"What about...?" Ethan nodded at the corpse._

_"I'll..." The sword flashed again. "I'll see it... seen to."_

_"We could... there must be whole volumes, Rip. Healings. Resurrections." Ethan was almost pleading. "We could do it with the right stuff." He put out a hand. "Ripper."_

_"**No.**" Rupert pulled back, doubling the space between them. "Scatter. Stay low. No casting."_

_"What if..." Philip coughed and spat. "It... isn't gone."_

_Cold silence fell._

_"It will be taken care of." Rupert drew a breath. "I can call... some people. It'll be handled."_

_"You'll **never**." Ethan growled. "What, go crawling..."_

_"What choice have I? What choice?" His voice was thin. "If Philip's right, if Ey-uh, i-i-it's still here, anything we do, any use of power, will draw it. We can't contain it. We **can't**."_

_"Certainly not now that Philip's cracked the bloody urn." Ethan straightened up with a grunt._

_"Anything?" Tom squeaked. "Not a glamour? But I'm... we're..."_

_"Fuck." Philip squinted along the footpath. "Someone's coming."_

***

"What's wrong, dearest, what hurts you?" A woman, it had to be Deirdre in her mocking mode, though the hands on his face were too big.

He knew she'd laugh and Ethan would sneer, but the words came all the same. "I dreamed I was home."

***

_He called, using the London number, both to save coins and to make a feeble, probably futile stab at concealing himself. To his relief, he didn't recognize the voice that answered._

_"There's been a-an incident." The formal phrasing came uneasily to his lips, but it came. "Demonic possession and execution of the human host. The body is on the Embankment; the demon may be a-a-at large." The shakes were worse now that he was alone. He leaned against the wall of the callbox and tried to keep his teeth from chattering._

_"Demon type?"_

_"Eyghon."_

_The woman on the line gave a prim sigh. "The major demonic types are as follows," she began._

_"Eyghon is its name. That's what it is."_

_"What are your sources?"_

_"There is a headless body on the bloody fucking Victoria Embankment, and possibly an incorporeal evil force looking for a host. Maybe you could do something about that before you ask for a sodding bibliography."_

_"If your information is erroneous,time could be wasted."_

_"What are you, the HAL 9000?"_

_"Please give the identifying characteristics of the demon, time of sighting, manner of execution…"_

_From two streets off there came a squeal of tires on asphalt. Rupert started, shook his head, then froze._

_"…area of activity, identity of host…" The bloody woman was still at it._

_Stalling me. Stalling me until the sodding wetworks team can trace… Rupert dropped the phone. Then he picked it up. "Sorry, a bit shaky," he said through suddenly cold lips. "Can you start that list again?" Without waiting for an answer he gently let the phone down to the end of its cord. He rubbed the handle of the sword with his shirt, then laid it on the call box floor. He stepped out, wedging a cigarette box in the door hinge to jam it shut, and walked, not too briskly, to the corner._

_Then he began to run._

***

"Good lord. I thought he was favoring the arm, but this..."

"We should ring Dr. Francis."

"No. Rose, hear me out. Denholm will be here in the morning with Marcus. We can look after him until then. The rune may need special handling, and a conventional doctor's not going to understand that."

"I know."

"Rose..."

"I know. Hold this. Just there."

***

_Rupert leaned against the alley wall, letting the damp soak through his singlet to the skin, and tried to stop gasping. The crook of his left arm burned. He clenched his teeth as he raked his nails over the skin, trying to raise enough welts to swallow the tattoo, to swallow his consciousness. In the shadows he couldn't tell whether the dampness on his fingers was sweat or blood._

***

A door banged, and banged again, loud over the noise in the room. Someone was picking at a guitar, and someone else was cutting runes into candles, and Randall and Ethan were on the end of the bed, heads together over a book. "Won't you come help us, Ripper?" Ethan said. "After all, you were the one that cut off his head. Now that you've saved the rest of the world, can you spare a moment to save Randall?"

"I'm sleeping," Rupert told him.

Randall looked up, spilling blood from the gash in his neck. "Your sword was dull," he said in Father's voice as he raised the blade. "You didn't take care of it. How do you expect it to protect you if you fail to respect it?"

"I don't want it." He tried to shout but his voice was only a wisp.

Ethan laughed. "A bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Take up the sword." Randall rose over the bed, sword flashing in his hand. Rupert cringed away, gritting his teeth against the bite of steel into his flesh, and suddenly woke with a start and a shuddering gasp.

"Steady, Rupert." Father, Father in a heavy quilted dressing gown with satin turnings, rising from the desk.

"Randall," he panted, struggling against the bedclothes. His heart kept hammering with a terror the yellow light of the desk lamp and the familiar sight of white walls and dark bookcases seemed unable to touch. When he drew a slower breath it caught in his chest and came out as a deep, harsh cough.

"You've been dreaming," Father said. "You have a fever."

Rupert pushed himself up in bed. His sore arm felt stiff and hot beneath a wide white bandage that hid Eyghon's mark. His head seemed hard to balance on his neck, and the room wavered. This was all wrong, all backwards. He dreamed of home and woke cold and coughing with a sharp elbow in his ribs, not the other way round. And Father should be angry. "Sword…"

Father turned the pillows, which had somehow multiplied from one to three. "Just dreams. Lie down, now."

Rupert's head ached too badly to refuse, but he shifted onto his right side so that he could keep his back to the wall. "Dreams?"

"That's all. Swallow these."

He fumbled with the small white pills, then closed his mouth on the offered straw. "What day is it?"

"Still Thursday night. Well, Friday morning now." Father took the water from him and smoothed the counterpane. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't sleep. Tom's playing." No, that wasn't real. He shook his head, then pressed it to the pillow to ease the dizziness that followed. "No. Sorry. Talking nonsense." The dream was beginning to fade, but the fear didn't ease. "I'm sorry." He coughed again, and again. "Sorry..."

"Hush." Father's hand brushed his forehead.

"Why don't you shout at me?" His voice was thin and choked. "Why don't you ask me anything?"

"I've rung your Uncle Marcus; he'll come to go over it properly. We needn't think any further at present."

"You shouldn't let me sleep… it takes you when you sleep, and you haven't got a sword…" Rupert couldn't keep his eyes open. Through his lashes he watched Father adjust the lamp.

"It's all right. You needn't sleep, just rest, all right?" Father took up a book and settled back in his chair. "Listen, and rest."

"'right…" Rupert answered.

Father pushed up his spectacles. "'This is the story of the different ways we looked for treasure,and I think when you have read it you will see that we were not lazy about the looking.'"

***

Rupert was ill for two days, or maybe three. The fever made it hard to recall the sequence of light and dark. An unfamiliar stout, sallow doctor examined him in disapproving silence, then murmured "skin infection, malnutrition, lice, exhaustion, bronchitis." There were pills and syrups to take, hot poultices for his arm, decoctions of pennyroyal and black alder for his scalp, poached eggs and orange squash brought in on trays. When the room was bright he swallowed what he was given and lay back on the pillows in the blessedly incurious haze of sickness, watching his airplanes stir on their wires until he slept again. In the nights he coughed and shuddered and tried not to cry over griefs he could not remember. Once, creeping dizzily back to bed from the lavatory, he saw his uncle through the open door of the spare room, but still there were no questions.

***

On the fourth day, or possibly only the third, it rained again and his temperature was normal. The doctor, recognizable now by type if not by name as a Council physician, reappeared to listen to Rupert's chest, study the scabs that had started to form as the infection dried out of his arm, and pronounce him convalescent. In honor of the news Mum brought him bacon with his egg and buttered his toast soldiers, and he read two chapters of _The Story of the Treasure Seekers_ while he ate.

"Your Father would like to see you in the study, once you're dressed," she said, when she came to take the tray. "Go along and wash."

Rupert felt no shock, only a sort of dim relief that they had come to it at last. He gave himself a tentative sponge bath, careful not to wet his bandage, and dressed in the trousers and buttoned shirt Mum chose for him from the few items he'd left in the wardrobe before Michaelmas. Nothing fit, but he made the best of it, cinching the belt and leaving the collar unfastened so that the nervous creature in the mirror looked casual but not actually unkempt. He squared his shoulders and went slowly downstairs, following the sound of hushed male voices to the door of Father's study, where he knocked.

There was a fire on the hearth and raindrops racing down the windowpanes, just as on the day he turned ten and a half, the day after which nothing was the same. A tea tray sat on the desk and a recording machine on a table between the red leather armchairs. Father, in his gray go-to-London suit, was talking to a wiry stranger while Uncle Marcus poured.

"How are you, Rupert?" Marcus asked, extending a hand.

"Much better, sir."

"Very good. This is my friend Jonathan Eccles."

"Sir," Rupert shook his hand as well.

"Eccles is with the Council's investigative office, but he's here unofficially, both to give us the benefit of his advice and to transport whatever records we generate to his colleagues. Should any further action be necessary -- a hearing, or other measures –- he's prepared to act as your advocate."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all." Eccles nodded at Uncle Marcus. "Robson's spoken often of your family; it's a pleasure to be of service."

"It's..." Father began.

"I-I..." Rupert said at the same moment.

"...appreciated," Father said, after a pause.

"Yes. Well." Eccles clasped his hands. "If we can all sit down, I'll just ask a few questions."

Marcus turned to Father. "Henry, you don't need to stay."

"I shan't interfere, but I should prefer to be present, if Rupert has no objection."

Rupert shook his head. He let Uncle Marcus usher him into an armchair, the same one he'd perched in when Father told him about the Council.

Eccles fussed with the recording machine, murmuring the date and the people present as if he were an American policeman on television. Finally satisfied, he sat back in his own armchair and opened his notebook. "When, exactly, did you leave Oxford?"

***

When Uncle Marcus and Mr. Eccles had gone, Mum came to collect the tea things. She poured Rupert a fresh cup, then gave his shoulder a little pat and silently went out again. Father went to his desk and opened a folder of what looked like student essays.

"What are you waiting for?" Rupert asked, when the silence became too much to bear.

"Waiting for?" Father made a neat mark on the paper before him and turned over a page.

"You must at least need to lecture me."

"I haven't made any plans in that direction. What would I say?"

"You could say 'I told you so.'"

"I must confess I don't recall cautioning you against running away from university to raise demons for pleasure and use magic for illicit profit."

Rupert winced. "You did tell me magic wasn't to be used frivolously."

Father took off his glasses. "Do you require any illumination on that point?"

"No," he whispered.

"I thought not. Rupert, the council will discipline you, perhaps severely; it is their responsibility to address situations beyond the reach of the mundane authorities. But your mother and I will not reiterate the things you've learned... learned more harshly, and fully, than we hoped you would so soon. We intend to stand by you."

Rupert dropped his head. "Why?" he asked at last. "I was... I _killed_ him."

"You killed a demon."

"A demon I raised."

"You were criminally foolhardy,without doubt. Yet the critical fact remains that when the demon ceased to serve you, you destroyed it, at some cost and with few tools to hand."

"Well, it might not have worked, but what the..." he swallowed the expletive that wanted to come. "What else could I have tried to do?"

Father pushed his spectacles up. "You could have worshiped it."

The idea struck him like a fist in the gut, stealing his breath. The reflexive gasp that followed made him cough so hard that Father made a move for the bin and Rupert had to wave him off.

"It's a common response," Father went on, when Rupert could stop. "Natural, in a sense, when confronted with a creature of power that can grant pleasures. Stronger men than you or I have fallen into that trap."

"But not people..." Like us, he thought, but there was no us. He cleared his throat again. "People who know. Someone who never believed, certainly, but not..."

"Not Watchers? I wish it were so. Rupert, it's hardly unknown for a student, or even a sworn Watcher, to go off the rails. The, ah, setting you chose, and the extent of your activities, are unusual, but the principle is not unprecedented. If anything, your return, and the fact that you called on the Council to address the mopping-up for which you lacked the resources, is the most unusual aspect of the situation."

"I didn't have any choice."

Father smiled slightly. "That's why you're here and not in a van somewhere with three neckless wonders from Cartwright's division."

"I wasn't being selfless, you know." Rupert plaited his fingers. "I was afraid it would find us. Find me. And that that the wetworks..."

"But you made the call, and left the sword, which was as good as a card."

"I didn't think of that. I was too tired to run with it, and I knew I couldn't hide with it."

Father nodded slightly but did not speak.

"You must be so very disappointed in me," Rupert said after a long pause.

"I was disappointed in your performance at university, and in your disappearance. I am satisfied with your handling of an uncontrolled, imminently destructive demon in the field." He took off his glasses. "I am glad to have you home," he finished quietly, rubbing the lenses on his handkerchief.

Rupert stared into the fire until he felt surer of his voice. "Thank you, sir."

"Go along, now." Father smiled very slightly. "I expect your mother has something nourishing to give you."

***

Rupert was weak enough to be glad to find Mum watching for him through the open kitchen door, but well enough to feel silly when she tucked the picnic blanket around him at the table and embarrassed at how often he had to put down his soup spoon to cough.

"They might have waited for your chest to improve a little before making you talk for hours." Mum took Rupert's empty bowl and set a medicine glass of onion syrup by his hand. "Drink that up."

"I'm glad they didn't. I'm glad it's done with." Rupert took a swallow of the homemade cough mix. "Some of it, anyway." Weariness, he began to realize, made an inferior anesthetic. As the haze of illness and the numb clarity of interrogation receded, his mind was stirring again, turning over question after question, each one more difficult than the last.

"There is that." She laid her palm against his forehead, then smoothed his hair. "Still no temperature. Good."

Rupert closed his eyes under the gentle touch. "Mum?"

"Yes, dear."

"You... you do know, don't you?"

"Yes. Oh, not the details, but when the Council called about the sword, we knew something... had gone badly. Then you came home, looking the way you did.... well. And you wandered quite a bit that first night, before we could get the fever down."

Gone badly. He snorted a laugh at the understatement, then coughed.

"Drink your medicine," she said.

His eyes watered and between spasms his breath caught in a little hiccuping gasp. "_Why?"_ he asked helplessly. "I stop answering your letters, leave university in mid-term, take up with no-good... loafers to practice petty theft a-a-and hedonistic magic, raise a demon and kill a man and you just make me toast soldiers…"

"Hush. _Hush._" When he was quiet, she sat down beside him. "Rupert. Look at me. There's not been a day, these last six months, that I didn't dream something worse." Her voice was hard, her eyes fierce. "You may think I put my head in the sand, but I know, dear lord I _know_, how many worse things can happen to a mother than to have her child guilty but alive, and home."

Rupert wondered who had told Randall's parents he was dead, and how it had been explained. He covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's no good, but I'm sorry."

"Shh," Mum said again. "I know." After a moment her hand came to rest on his hair again. "It's all right. It will be all right. I'm sorry, too," she added.

"For what?" he demanded, shocked into looking at her again.

"That you couldn't be a grocer." She smiled sadly. "It was my idea, you know. Your father agreed, but I was the one who first said we should wait to tell you about the Council. I hoped that we could spare you a little of the burden by keeping it until you were older." She shook her head. "But it was only cruel, wasn't it, to give you a childhood only to take it away? To make you take on the weight all at once?"

For several moments Rupert could find no words. "Mum... no. That's ancient history. It's nothing to do with... with the mess I got myself in."

"Really. Nothing at all to do with running away? Do give me a little credit, Rupert." She leaned in to kiss his forehead, then stood. "Now," she said briskly, "I think you've been up more than long enough for your first day out of bed."

His eyes were smarting again. He rubbed at one with the back of his hand. "You used to bribe me with a new set of transfers every time I had to stay in bed," he reminded her.

"Fortunately you were a healthy child. If you'd been sickly we'd have had to disappoint you sometimes." She ran hot water into the sink.

"Thank you," he said.

Her shoulders trembled slightly, but when she turned to meet his eyes she was smiling. "I haven't any transfers. Sorry," she added quickly, when Rupert's laugh turned into another cough.

"Damn- er, sorry, Mum." He rubbed his chest.

"Do you..."

He pushed back his chair. "No, I'm all right."

"All right." She watched him for a long moment before turning back to the basin. Rupert carefully folded the blanket, then closed the kitchen door behind him. He shuffled down the passage to the foot of the stairs and stood there for a moment, fiddling through his sleeve with the edge of his bandage. The spot still hurt when he pressed it, but the swelling had nearly gone. He turned back to the study and knocked.

"Yes?" Father called. "Rupert," he said when the door opened. "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I will." He shifted his weight. "I... What happened to Grandmother's sword?"

Father laid down his pen. "Come in." He went to the Japanese cabinet under the window and slid back its door to remove a long, narrow box.

Rupert's heart skipped, from relief or from fear he could not say.

"Eccles brought it from London. Ordinarily it would have to be held as evidence, but given that there's no question of identification, I've been permitted to keep it." Father lifted off the lid.

Reluctantly he crossed the room to look. The sword lay on a foam pad, the jade inset in the pommel still gleaming, the blade stained and corroded with demon blood. Rupert found his arm rising; he made a fist and lowered it. "I, uh. Didn't clean it," he mumbled.

"When you can carry it again, you will." Father sounded very sure.

Rupert shook his head.

Father's gaze was unflinching. "You will."

He felt a tremor of despair, but also of unfamiliar hope. "Maybe," he said, and put out his hand to touch the hilt.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [H/C Ficathon](http://headrush100.livejournal.com/185386.html). Prompt words used: water, home,isolation, anger.
> 
> I had the best beta readers EVER on this one. Thanks to [](http://penwiper26.livejournal.com/profile)[**penwiper26**](http://penwiper26.livejournal.com/), [](http://headrush100.livejournal.com/profile)[**headrush100**](http://headrush100.livejournal.com/), and [](http://glimmergirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**glimmergirl**](http://glimmergirl.livejournal.com/) for saving me from serious implausibilities, weak endings, inconsistencies of tone, Americanisms in the mouths of Englishmen, and bad Latin. All remaining flaws are totally my fault.
> 
> This story has been honored by the [Round Seven](http://bra.drakeleather.com/winners_round7.shtml) of the [Bodice Ripper Awards](http://bra.drakeleather.com/main.shtml) in the categories of Best Gen Story, Best Plot, and Judges' Choice.
> 
> There is a DVD commentary for this story [here](http://kivrin.livejournal.com/230737.html) at LiveJournal.


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